The man in the suit pulls out his phone. He doesn't look at anyone. He just dials.
One call.
That's all it takes.
I'm still on the ice. The paramedics are working on me. One of them is cutting my coat open. The other is pressing something against my ribs. Everything hurts. Everything is too bright.
But I can hear phones buzzing. All around me. A hundred phones. Maybe more.
Someone in the crowd gasps. Then another person. Then everyone is talking at once.
"Oh my god."
"Are you seeing this?"
"It's her. It's actually her."
I don't understand. My vision is swimming. I try to focus on the paramedic's face but it keeps sliding away.
A woman near the police barrier is reading from her phone. Her voice is loud. Shaking. "Brynlee Vargas. Daughter of Jackson Vargas. Sole heir to Vargas Capital. Estimated net worth—" She stops. Her hand covers her mouth.
The crowd goes silent.
Then the noise comes back. Louder. Sharper.
"She's the Vargas heiress?"
"She renounced her inheritance?"
"She's been here the whole time?"
I close my eyes. The words don't make sense. Nothing makes sense.
Someone is crying. I think it's me.
When I open my eyes again, I see Craig. He's standing ten feet away. His face is white. Completely white. Like all the blood drained out.
He's staring at me. His mouth is open. His hands are shaking.
Then his legs give out.
He doesn't fall. He just... sinks. His knees hit the ice. He catches himself with his hands. He's on all fours. Staring at the ground.
Someone near him is reading from their phone. A man's voice. Flat. Factual. "She worked at the campus bookstore for $12 an hour. She lived on a need-based scholarship. She hasn't accessed her trust fund in over two years."
Craig makes a sound. It's not a word. It's something broken.
I remember the ramen. Five nights a week. The same cheap brand. Craig always offered to pay for dinner. I always said no. I wanted to prove I could do it myself.
I remember the jacket. Thrift store. $8. I wore it all winter. Craig bought me a new one for Christmas. I cried when I opened it. He thought I was happy.
I was. I was so happy.
The paramedic is talking to me. I can't hear the words. Just the tone. Urgent. Steady.
My phone is still in my pocket. Cracked. Wet with blood. But the screen lights up. Notifications. Hundreds of them. My social media is exploding.
Someone in the crowd shouts. "The livestream! It's still going!"
I turn my head. Pain shoots through my neck. I see Maisie's phone. Still propped on the tripod. Still recording. The little red light is still blinking.
The view count is climbing. 50,000. 75,000. 100,000.
People are holding up their phones. Filming everything. The police. The paramedics. Craig on his knees. Me on the ice.
A woman near the front is reading the comments aloud. Her voice is shaking. "'She's the one who got hit?' 'Oh my god, we were calling her jealous.' 'I said she was causing drama.' 'I feel sick.'"
The comments keep coming. Faster. Angrier.
"'Arrest her!' 'That girl tried to kill an heiress!' 'This is attempted murder on camera!'"
Maisie is still standing by the snowplow. She's not crying anymore. She's just... frozen. Staring at her phone screen. Watching the view count climb.
150,000.
175,000.
200,000.
Her face is gray. Her hands are shaking so hard the phone almost falls.
One of the officers steps toward her. He's holding handcuffs.
Maisie's head snaps up. "No. No, wait. You don't understand. She—"
"Miss Lynch." The officer's voice is firm. "Turn around. Hands behind your back."
"This wasn't supposed to—" Maisie's voice cracks. She looks at Craig. He's still on his knees. Still staring at nothing. "Craig. Craig, tell them. Tell them it was—"
She stops.
The crowd is silent. Waiting.
Maisie's breathing is fast. Shallow. Her eyes are wild. She looks at the cameras. All the cameras. Dozens of them. All pointed at her.
Something breaks.
"It was YOUR idea!" She's screaming now. Her voice is raw. Ugly. "You said we'd teach the little princess a lesson! You said we'd make her fall in love and then watch her crawl! You called it 'The Game!' Don't you DARE pretend you have a conscience now!"
The words hit the air like a bomb.
The crowd erupts.
Craig's head jerks up. His eyes are wide. Terrified.
Maisie is still screaming. "You picked the alley! You handed her the rose! You said she deserved it! You said she needed to know what it felt like to be—"
The officer grabs her arm. "Miss Lynch, you have the right to remain silent."
But Maisie doesn't stop. She's sobbing now. The words are pouring out. "I did everything you told me to do! I built the whole thing for you! And now you're just going to—"
The handcuffs click.
Maisie goes limp.
The livestream chat is a blur. I can't read the words. They're moving too fast. But I can see the emojis. Angry faces. Shocked faces. Crying faces.
Someone in the crowd is shouting. "She just confessed! She confessed on camera!"
The paramedic is lifting me onto a stretcher. My body screams. I bite down on my lip until I taste blood.
I turn my head. One last time.
Craig is still on his knees. He's staring at Maisie. Then at me. Then at the ground.
His face is empty.
I close my eyes.
The stretcher lifts. The world tilts. I hear the helicopter before I see it. The sound drowns out everything else.
One tear rolls down my temple. Into my hair.
Then the darkness comes.
